Going Under
by Hammsters
Summary: "Smile for the camera." Don't let them see what you hide. "Smile for the camera" and play the happy couple, it will all get better in time. "Just smile," don't let them see that you're broken inside. I can't face this pain inside, but I'll just grin and bear it. Grin nice and big, "Smile pretty for the camera Erin." Sequel to Teenagers.
1. Going Under

**Hey guys, look who's back! It's, like, your favorite author ever! Haha, just kidding. I've had this written for months and I thought I was gonna make you guys suffer for a while, but now I'm home from school, tragically dying of a head cold, and I really have nothing better to do with my time than post this. So yeah, here it is. Enjoy!**

**Warning: This is seriously fucked up**

**Song: Going Under by Evanescence  
Oh, and sorry for the creepy-ass description, I couldn't resist**

* * *

**Now I will tell you what I've done for you -**  
**50 thousand tears I've cried.**  
**Screaming, deceiving and bleeding for you -**  
**And you still won't hear me.**  
**(going under)**  
**Don't want your hand this time - I'll save myself.**  
**Maybe I'll wake up for once (wake up for once)**  
**Not tormented daily defeated by you**  
**Just when I thought I'd reached the bottom**

My thoughts come in rushed and jumbled in between the steady _thump-thumping _of blood pulsing in my ears.

_Weak._

"No," I mumble, fiddling with the lock on my back door until it opens and I storm inside. "Is anyone home?" I call, even though I don't really want to talk to my family if they're here. I'm answered with silence.

**I'm dying again**

The pictures I see out of the corner of my eye- the ones that have hung in the hall for years- hardly register with me. The laughing blonde-haired five year old is part of someone else's past. The twelve year old posing like a gangster is some other girl trying to look cool. These memories belong to someone else. I whirl around when the stillness in the hall is interrupted by movement, then sigh when I realize it's my own shadow.

_Scared._

I clap my hands over my ears as if to banish the thoughts- the ones that sound oddly like a boy I thought I'd never see again. _I'm not scared. I'm recovered. _I run to the TV in the family room and turn it on, hoping to distract myself. There's an unnatural girl on the screen; brown hair so perfect it couldn't exist in real life, make up she never could've done herself. No one watching would know it was the first time in days she'd left her house, let alone washed her hair. Who could tell that the make up concealed the sickliness she'd developed, the bags that were constantly under her eyes? No, she was a perfect little Barbie doll, dressed up by overgrown children and speaking the words another person told her to.

**I'm going under (going under)**  
**Drowning in you (drowning in you)**  
**I'm falling forever (falling forever)**  
**I've got to break through**  
**I'm going under**

"So Erin, what was the first thing you thought when you realized you were being rescued?" The overly de-aged talk show host asked.

"My mind immediately jumped to how great it would be to shower again," I had replied, and the host and I laughed. I shut the TV off, but the forced laughter rings in my ears.

_Fake._

"No," I mutter again, more firmly this time. I try again to distract myself. I try to clean, but realize I no longer know where everything goes. I try to bake, but I can't figure out how to use the oven my family got while I was gone. I try to work on school work I missed, but it's hopeless because I haven't been taught any of these lessons.

_Useless, _pipes up the voice in my head.

**Blurring and stirring - the truth and the lies.  
(So I don't know what's real) So I don't know what's real and what's not (and what's not)  
Always confusing the thoughts in my head  
So I can't trust myself anymore**

"No!" I protest once again. I run upstairs to my room where I slam the door and pace while humming a Green Day song I've long since forgotten the words to. The voice still carries on in my head. I see a flash out of the corner of my eye and pause to look in the mirror. It's not the girl from the TV I see, but what lay beneath the flashy grins and layers of concealer. It's the gaunt face and dead eyes that greeted me that day on the ship. It's the pale skin that was once black and blue and caked in blood. It's the bare bones that hid beneath chubby cheeks and one-dimpled smiles onlly a year ago. And when I look into the tired eyes, the voice becomes memory on top of memory.

**I'm dying again**

"_Nighty__ night," he whispers in an eerily soft, calm voice._

Brown hair that hung in his face, covering the eyes that were so filled with hatred.

_"Shut the hell up Shitbrains. Do you honestly think I care if one of the surplus brats drowns?"_

Black-brown eyes that showed the darkness of his soul as he and Jack circled me like sharks, scanning me, appraising me, deciding my worth.

_"Don't worry. We're all going to have tons of fun."_

Fang-like canines that embedded themselves in my skin, my lips, my neck.

_"Don't worry sweetheart, it's gonna be fun."_

Roger McAllistor, the boy who never got caught.

**I'm going under (going under)**  
**Drowning in you (drowning in you)**  
**I'm falling forever (falling forever)**  
**I've got to break through**

**I'm...**

It's his voice I hear, his voice that taunts me the way it always taunted me. It's him that lives in my every nightmare, every horrible waking thought of every horrible waking hour. It's him that I can just almost imagine in front of me speaking the words that no one says but I hear anyway.

_Weak._

_Scared._

_Fake._

**So go on and scream  
Scream at me I'm so far away (so far away)  
I won't be broken again (again)  
I've got to breathe - I can't keep going under**

**I'm dying again**

_Useless. _Roger's voice echoes in my mind, each word it's own separate curse. _Weak. Scared. Fake. Useless. _The words come at me faster. _Weak, scared, fake, useless. Weakscaredfakeuseless, weakscaredfake-_

"Shut _up!" _I scream suddenly.

I don't think when I pick up my brush. I don't move when it shatters the mirror. I just stand there and embrace the familiar stabbing pain lake an old friend as the shards fly at me. I almost smile as the warm stickiness oozes down my skin.

It all stops when the door swings open behind me and my sister screams, "Erin!"

It's then that the agonizing pain registers with me. I cry out and collapse, rocking back and forth and squeezing my butchered arms. My sister runs up with toilet paper she took from the bathroom and begins wrapping my cuts with it.

"Alaina," I whisper between sobs.

"Shh," she whispers back reassuringly. "It's going to be okay."

**I'm going under (going under)**  
**Drowning in you (drowning in you)**  
**I'm falling forever (falling forever)**  
**I've got to break through**

**I'm going under (going under)**  
**I'm going under (drowning in you)**  
**I'm going under**

There was a time when her words were all I'd need, when I would've believed anything Alaina said. But now her words lack the promise of truth I once found in them. Lies, just like the ones I tell every day, every hour, every minute. Fake, just like the person I pretend to be.

What's happening to me?

**I deeply apologize for what I have done to my poor character. You know how, in Teenagers, she was always going through some kind of physical torture? Well, since none of the guys can do that now that they're back to civilization, they pretty much fuck with her mind for this whole story. And...her sanity's kinda gone with the wind...you'll get used to it. She does get progressively better though, so you have that to look forward to! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it despite Erin's issues, so please review!**


	2. Ain't It a Wonderful Life?

**I have a life during the holidays, and I know you do too, so I"m going to be brief.  
1. THIS IS THE FIRST CHAPTER YOU WILL READ THAT IS WRITTEN BY ME AS A FIFTEEN YEAR OLD! I feel so old. I was thirteen when I started on this site.  
2. Merry Christmas motherfuckers!  
3. Warning. This contains mentions of self-harm and black and white movies. It is strongly suggested that those with a weak stomach take precaution.**

The next day, as usual, I'm dropped off at my therapists at 12:59, and just as I enter the waiting room, the door swings open and the same client as always walks out. Ralph. After being rescued, the doctors on the ship all recommended we see psychiatrists, and the same one was suggested to each of us, Dr. Charles Danner. As far as we know, only Ralph and I took that suggestion seriously. When he walks out, he nods at me like he always does, and when he does his eyes catch on the bandages going up and down my arms. I pull at the frayed ends of the wrappings uncomfortably.

"What's that?" he asks, breaking the silence in the reception room. I shrug.

"Cuts," I say simply.

"Again?" he asks. I nod.

"Shit happens." The corners of his mouth quirk up slightly and I notice the small spots of dried blood along his lips.

"What's with your mouth, Joker?" I ask. He shrugs in a manner just like myself.

"Chewed it up good during a nightmare," he replies. Unlike me, his problems with self harm only occur when he's asleep. Last week he scratched at his neck until it bled, dreaming that he was being strangled by Jack.

"That's a new one," I say after thinking a moment.

"Shit happens," he repeats. I can't help but grin at this.

"We still hanging out tonight?" I ask. He grins wider as well.

"Wouldn't miss it." Since getting off the island, discovering how close our houses are, and running into each other multiple times here, me and Ralph got fed up with the awkwardness that's been going on since that first day we met and became kind of sort of friends. It's fun, but as you can see, we still can't make great conversation.

"Good, 'cause I'm making you watch _It's a Wonderful Life _if I have to find you and tie you to the couch," I say. He and I had a little argument about black and white movies, which ticked me off, seeing as my all-time favorite is in black and white. He chuckles.

"I stand by my opinion that black and white sucks and gives people headaches," he says. I'm about to retort with some pathetic comeback about his face giving people headaches when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket and a recording of his mother yelling, "Ralph, pick up the phone!" repeatedly plays. He sighs and pulls it out of his pocket.

"Yeah, I'm done." Pause. "Yes Ma, everything was fine." Pause numero dos. "No Ma, I can't I'm going to-" Pause numero tres. "Yeah, I'll be right out." He hangs up and stuffs it back in his pocket. "I've gotta go, my mom wants me to pick up my sister from dance before I go over to your house." He starts walking out backwards, waving awkwardly before turning around.

"See ya," I call back, then muttering under my breath, "Heathen."

"Heard that!" he laughs. The door slams heavily behind him as he walks out and just as he does, Dr. Danner sticks his big balding head out the door of his office.

"Erin, are you ready?" I sigh.

"I'mma comin'" I say, walking in through the door. He smiles at me and gestures for me to sit down. "Hiya Chuckles, how've you been?" I ask, using the nickname that goes back to when he told me I could call him Chuck at our first session. That's what he gets for trying to appeal to a younger generation. I stand stationary in the middle of the room for a moent, then allow myself to fall backwards onto the couch like I've done ever since my first session. Then, also according to sacred tradition, I blow between my lips like a horse. Neigh. "Chuckles, I've got _issues." _

"I'm not surprised, considering you are my fastest improving paranoid schizophrenic with a social anxiety disorder and severe depression," he replies as if that's the most normal thing in the world.

"I have a feeling I'm probably your only paranoid schizophrenic with a social anxiety disorder and severe depression," I reply. He sighs.

"What I'm trying to say is that you're bound to hit some road bumps, but overall you've been doing well. You've stopped cutting yourself haven't you?" he asks. Instead of beaming with pride like I might have done a year ago, I simply shrug. I've only been back a month and a half, but I've managed to land myself in the ER five times already due to a bad habit of slitting my wrists. It's been two weeks since my last incident, however. "You're making huge strides Erin. So would you like to tell me what caused this little setback?" Suddenly, it feels like somebody's reached into me and squished my heart up into a crumpled wad of nothing. That feeling of utter emotionlessness and disregard for...well everything that I can hide in the presence of those I care about shines through painfully. I sit up and hug my knees to my chest, squeezing my head in between them the way you're supposed to if you're lightheaded.

"I saw them," I whisper. "All of them."

_-Flashback-_

_What I was doing at Dominick's, believe me, I had no clue. One minute I was huddled in my cave of darkness (my basement) for the third day straight, in the middle of a spectacular Disney movie marathon, the next my mom was dragging me out of the house rambling about how the fresh air would be good for me. Right as Ratcliffe was about to shoot John Smith too! I knew as I was being dragged out that something bad was going to happen. I just had no clue what._

_They were the first thing I saw when we stepped through the automatic doors into the overly air conditioned entrance of the Dominick's next to Lyons Township. They were in the Starbucks, almost every one of them, some stretched out over two chairs, others leaning against the wall next to their friends' tables with an old fashioned bottle of Coke in their hand. Simon and Jack were in line for coffee, or whatever else there is to buy at Starbucks. Maurice was leaning dangerously far back in a chair with his feet resting on his table, and Bill was behind him, preparing to tip the chair over and send Maurice toppling to the ground. Robert was propped up half asleep next to Maurice with coffee in his hand and his drooping eyes rolling at his friends. Around them were Henry, Cole, Daniel, etc., all acting like normal people. The only one missing was Roger._

_I hardly recognized them at first, not without their tattered uniforms and paint smeared over their faces. Simon and Jack were dressed as a couple of regular preps, Simon in a button down, Jack in a polo, and both wearing khakis. Maurice was decked out completely in sweats, Bill was in an Illinois sweatshirt and jeans, and Robert- I kid you not- had his hair gelled, fake glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, and had a rumpled indie band t-shirt on. _Holy shit, _I thought,_ Robert's a hipster._ Jack turned around with an unidentifiable Starbuck's cup in his hand and for a moment, his eyes locked with mine before I looked away sharply and ran off to catch up with my mom._

_When I found her in the snacks aisle she was absentmindedly placing bags of chips and snack pack putting in her cart while talking to some lady I didn't recognize. Beside her was a boy my age, looking just as impatient as I would be in that same situation. Upon examining his face closely for a moment, my stomach twisted painfully._

_The boy was Roger, much neater and healthier looking than the last time I'd seen him. I must be honest, I knew he wasn't exactly preppy or goth, but I'd never imagined him quite as normal looking as he was. His hair was still styled in the choppy and somewhat emo style he'd cut it to on the ship, but the patches of red on his face were gone, the bags under his eyes less pronounced, and he was simply dressed in jeans and a Three Days Grace t-shirt. Upon recognizing me, his eyes widen for a moment, then recovering slightly, he gulps, nods at me, and stares intently at his feet while rubbing at his nose uncomfortably*._

_"Oh there you are Erin," my mom remarked when she noticed me standing there. I dropped my hands to my side suddenly, realing only just now that I was absently tracing my shirt where it covered Ralph's shotty stitching over my stomach. I never told anyone about the scar, and therefore no doctor has touched it. "This is Mrs. McAllistor, and obviously you know Roger."_

_"How do you know them?" I ask softly. My mom sighs._

_"You never listen do you? Erin, I've been telling you for weeks, the McAllistors are the family that built the house next door," she said. I had a sudden recollection of my mom trying to tell me about our new neighbors, 'Isn't that new house next door blah blah? The blah who lived there, the Something-or-others, are just such a blobbity blah. They have two somethings your age, Some God Awful Name and Something Sorta European Sounding. You know one of them!' Of course, her version of that sentence made much more sense. Of course, my mom had already picked up her conversation where she left off, and Roger was doing a professional job of avoiding eye contact._

_"You know they've closed the school Roger and Miles used to go to," Mrs. McAllistor said._

_"Oh you're kidding!" my mom replied. "Saint Barbara's right? My son went there for pre-school!" Mrs. McAllistor nods. "Where are you going to send them?"_

_"That was the point of moving here. Miles has been going to Saint Francis Xavier the last few months and Roger will be starting after Christmas break," she said. At that very moment, I'm fairly sure if I'd been drinking something, it would've been all over that poor woman's face._

_"Oh, that's when Erin will be going back!" my mom said. I was hardly listening though. You know that moment in books when the hero is in a bad situation which apparently leaves his bodily functions inoperable and your heart pounds faster as you read on but deep down all you're thinking about is- despite how romantically horrid the thought is- how ridiculous it is for the heart to stop and blood to run cold. Well, I can testify first hand that it's really not quite as ridiculous as you'd think. Roger at my school. Roger on my street. ROGER IN THE FUCKING HOUSE NEXT DOOR. What the hell is he even doing in La Grange?! Simon said they were all from Springfield! The thought of all this became too much to bear. _But then you've always been weak, _an eerily familiar voice in my head said. Stop! I think. I know what always follows this, what follows my hallucinations of Roger and the island. _You're weak, Erin! Worthless! _No! I thought, but the voice continued to pester me._

_"Mom, I think I need to go...somewhere," I mumbled, hurrying down the aisle. My mom called after me, and I think I even heard the pounding of gym shoes on the plastic floor- Roger chasing after me- but I didn't listen or stop._

_A lot happened over the next hour. I wandered through Downtown La Grange for some time, but then it began to rain and I ducked into a McDonald's, where I kicked and pounded on the wall of the bathrooms until my fists bled. It was at that point that I walked home despite the thunder and lightning, and the entire time I muttered to myself like an insane asylum escapee, and Roger's voice in my head. Then I got home, and well..._

"Then I got home, threw my brush at the mirror to shut the voice up, and this happened," I say, raising my hands in the air. I look up and see that Dr. Danner has a thoughtful look on his face. That's what I like about him. He isn't always telling me what to do and what not to do, or looking like I'm about to break. He actually tries to understand what I'm going through. He doesn't understand the way Ralph does, but at least he tries instead of trying to build me back into someone I'm not anymore.

"You say it's Roger's voice you hear?" he asks. I nod. "Why is that?" I shake my head.

"Sorry Chuckles, but that's between me and my nightmares," I say. He sighs.

"Erin, I know you've been through a lot. I only want to help you though," he says.

"I don't need your help! Ralph understands me, Simon _used _to understand, before I, ya know, coldheartedly dumped his ass, and that's all I need!" I snap suddenly.

"I can't make you talk to me Erin," he says. "But know that if you do ever need to talk, it's my job to help you," he says jokingly. I crack a smile at this. He holds up a finger and searches through the drawers of his desk and pulls out a leatherbound book. "You don't have to show me this, I won't read it unless you want me to, but I want you to write in it at least once a week. All I'll do is check to make sure you do it." I stand, walk over to his desk, and take the book from him. A strip of metal on the cover reads 'Diary." My first thought is, where the hell did he get this diary, 1942?

"A diary?" I snort. "How cliche."

"It'll help Erin. If the only person you can talk to is Ralph, who you won't be able to talk to in a few days, seeing as he's going to Germany for his Christmas vacation, then you have to get your feelings out somehow, and this is a good way. Just give it a shot, okay?" I sigh.

"All right."

* * *

Three hours later, my therapy session long forgotten and the diary shoved onto a bookshelf somewhere in my room, my family room is completely trashed, there's popcorn in my hair, and Ralph won't stop making wisecracks about the greatest film ever made. It started with the simple most obvious ones, making fun of Violet's love of every boy and who she'll probably be a slut one day, Mary's creepy crush on George, and how George's commentary on how he should sell tickets to see Mary hiding behind a bush was a gateway into prostitution and he "shouldn't do it George, you ain't ready to be pimpin'." Direct quote. He'd had quite a bit of fun making fun of Clarence's disappointment over his out of date underwear, and now he's shaking my shoulders yelling dramatically, "Not the _liiiiiiibraaaaaaaaaary!" _Ralph is a very _special _child now that he's a little more relaxed.

It's in the middle of his so called comedy act that the lights switch on and I look up to see my brother dropping into the chair across the room with a bowl of popcorn and a large smile on his face. He clears his throat and Ralph releases my shoulders and jumps to the opposite end of the couch. Unlike the rest of my family, my Jacky does not like Ralph.

"So, what're we watching?" he asks, shovelling a handful of popcorn into his mouth. Ralph stammers an answer and I laugh. Sometimes, I really love my brother.

**So what'd you think? Yes, I know. I've always just seen Ralph as being one of those guys who calls his mom 'Ma.' Plus I wrote that bit after watching It's A Wonderful Life and I had Ma Bailey on the brain. Also, since Erin is the baby of the family, she'll be a huge Daddy's girl and will kiss up to "her Jacky" quite a bit. Sorry. Also, I know this chapter isn't nearly as serious as the last one, but I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. Most of these won't be. She'll have her breakdowns, sure, and the first chapter was to prepare you for that, but for most of the story she's just...cold. Her personality's similar to what it was before, but the only person she doesn't completely shut out is Ralph. So yeah, I incoorporated a little humor to make up for how depressing the last chapter was. I hope you all liked it, please review! And Merry Christmas! OR Happy Hannukah! OOOR, Happy Quanzah. If that's how you spell it. If you're nondenominational? Happy Baxter Day. Enjoy the holidays!**


	3. Playing God

**What? What the hell is this?! Hammsters is updating?! What is this sorcery! Ita vero, amicae, redio (It is true, friends, I return)! And with fancy Latin shit at my side! Not to braaaag or anything, but while I was away I got the Maxima Cum Laude (the second highest recognition) on the National Latin Exam soooooo if you didn't already think I was a nerd, now you know. I know that doesn't excuse me for not updating, but I was hoping that if I got you guys excited for me you might be distracted. Sigh. I'm sooooooorry but I got hit with an awesome plot bunny and the next thing I knew, I was 17,000 words into an original story. Whoops. But I'm here now, so enjoy!**

**Song: Playing God by Paramore**

I'm surrounded by darkness, and squinting through the dim light, as far as I can see, there is nothing but endless forest. The air smells like fire, woods, and sea water, but the most prevalant things I detect around me are the sounds. Crackling of leaves, yells in the air, and my own labored breathing. It's these things that tell me I can only be back on the island.

An unparalleled terror fills me upon this realization and, not knowing what else to do, I take off. That's the funny thing about the island. I can never outrun the problems that plague me, the mosters that hunt me, but running is the only hope for salvation. THe island is alive, more so than it ever was, branches reaching out to claw at me, roots and brambles grabbing at my bare feet and ankles, rocks digging into my heels in the hopes of slowing my progress. Nothing can stop me though, not even the throbbing ache in my muscles or the stinging of branches slicing through my sensitive skin, or even the burning, sticky liquid flowing out from wounds I thought had healed. No, nothing can stop me running, because I hear the yells, the screams, the chants, the very sounds that had haunted every nightmare after the hunters almost killed Simon. I can't stop because I know they'll kill Ralph if they find him before I do. And worst of all, I can't stop because I know _he's _out there looking for me.

**Can't make my own decisions**  
**Or make any with precision**  
**Well maybe you should tie me up**  
**So I don't go where you don't want me**

I skid to a halt in the emadow, somehow knowing that this is where I'm supposed to meet Ralph. However, he's nowhere to be seen. I double over in pain, gasping for air but trying to stay as quite as possible. I"m just beginning to slow my heart rate back down when I hear a rustle in the woods behind me and a voice not far from here.

"Erin!" Ralph calls quietly. I grin and am about to call him over when I feel an arm lock around my waist and tug me into the bushes while a hand covers my mouth.

"Shh," a horribly distinct voice whispers, his voice tickling my ear. "Don't want to give us away to pretty boy, do you?" Roger shoves my head to look in certain directions and in each one I see a different hunter slowly creeping toward him. I whimper and struggle against him so that I can warn Ralph, but Roger just chuckles and holds me tighter. "Watch carefully sweetheart."

"Erin!" Ralph calls again, a little louder this time. Jack appears behind him with a malicious smile and his knife at the ready and I try to yell through Roger's hand, but it does nothing. Tears begin to slip out from my eyes and Roger chuckles again. Jack raises his knife and-

"No," I moan, flipping onto my other side in bed.

"Yes," my mom replies from where she stands next to my bed, mocking my tone. "Come on, you don't want to be late for your first day back." I groan again.

"I start today?" I ask, rubbing at my eyes.

"Yes, and don't you complain to me. You're the one who insisted on going back a month earlier than the doctor suggested," she says. "It'll be fine honey." She then tosses my uniform onto the foot of my bed and leaves the room, closing the door behind her. I sigh and sit up, picking up one of the plain white blouses that have been part of my everyday wardrobe since first grade. I can't help but smile slightly at the familiar cotton fabric, the black Expo marker mar just below the collar, the yellow paint stain just at the hem. I may not be especially fond of my classmates, but it's nice to go somwhere familiar, somwhere safe, surrounded by people I've know practically since birth. Well, sixty seven people I've known since birth, and Maurice, Samneric, Simon, Robert, and the McAllister twins. Suddenly, I'm not so excited.

"Get over it Erin," I mutter to myself. "It'll be fine."

**You say that I been changing**  
**that I'm not just simply aging**  
**Yeah how could that be logical?**  
**Just keep on cramming ideas down my throat**

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, I'm trudging in the front door of good old Saint Francis Xavier School, leaving a trail of snowy footprints and staring sixth graders behind me. I ignore them as they stare- a phenomenon I've become all too accustomed to ever since I became the famous "island girl" when the press got wind of my existence nearly three months ago. Instead, I focus on the grainy texture of the beige paint on the walls, the familiar posters plastered around me bearing such clever messages as "Bullying Hurts," and the almost homey smell of cardboard and new school supplies that I've always associated with the first day of school. I embrace the scent happily as I always have, knowing that tomorrow I will no longer be able to detect it. I've never loved this place, but coming back after almost nine months away, I'm overwhelmed by realizing how much I've missed it. My slightly heeled and furry snow boots squeak to a stop in front of the most unnecessarily heavy door in the entire building: the entrance to the school office. Taking a deep breath, I quickly push open the door and step in. The moment I'm in, there's a slight gasp, and the next thing I know the receptionist, the school nurse, and two teachers are hugging me.

**You don't have to believe me**  
**But the way I, way I see it**  
**Next time you point a finger**  
**I might have to bend it back**  
**Or break it, break it off**  
**Next time you point a finger**  
**I'll point you to the mirror**

Over the next few minutes I'm oo-ed and ah-ed over and the women I've known for as long as I can remember say again and again how great it is to have me back. I'm told all about the mass that they had for my family (great, because I really want to be reminded that I was assumed dead for nine months) and how the entire school got a day off to celebrate me being found and how excited all the students were (probably about the day off), etc. After a while, I manage to struggle free, telling them that I was supposed to meet with the principal before school started. The receptionist directs me to her office, a room I'd only been sent to once before when I kicked Peter Simms in the shins in sixth grade, and soon I'm knocking on the door.

"Come in," I hear the familiar voice behind the door and I do as told. The principal's office is simple, a small green painted room with a table in the back and to the right of the door is her desk, covered in neatly stacked papers in books and adorned with the plackard bearing her name, Ms. Rhodes. Behind it sits the aging redhead herself, and in front of it is Simon, crouched on the ground picking up papers he apparently dropped. "You can sit down Ms. FitzGerald, Simon's just headed out." He glances up when she says my name, then hastily looks down again when our eyes meet. I blush very slightly and take the seat in front of her desk. The second he's gathered his papers he darts out the door, mumbling a goodbye to both of us.

"Good morning Ms. Rhodes," I say in the same respectful tone my parents trained me to speak to adults with my whole life, the same one my friends used to tease me about.

**If God's the game you're playing**  
**Well we must get more acquainted**  
**Because it has to be so lonely**  
**To be the only one who's holy**

"Good morning to you too," she says, smiling. Noticing my discomfort about being in the room kids were only ever sent to for scolding, she says, "You're not in any trouble, not this early in your year. I just want to make sure you've got all your work made up and ready to turn into your teachers. According to your seventh grade teachers, this should be a concern." I blush again. I've become famous over the years for my unbelievable disorganiztion. My fifth grade teacher even found decaying food in my locker once.

"Yes, I have it all together," I reply, picking up my insanely heavy backpack and dropping it to the ground with a thud, for show. She smiles.

"I assumed you would. Other than that there isn't much for you. I've put together your schedule, your class list, the school directory, the date for when you'll be taking your yearbook photo, and lastly a list of numbers for students willing to help you if you have any questions while adjusting. The last is just a formality," she says with yet _another _smile. "You know the drill here, but we thought you might as well have it. Now that that's taken care of, do you have any questions for me?" I shake my head. "Then you're free to go." I barely hold in a sigh of relief before slinging my backpack over my shoulder and starting for the door. "By the way Erin," she calls after me. "It's good to have you back." I smile and thank her, then rush out the door.

* * *

God I hate being stared at.

**It's just my humble opinion**  
**But it's one that I believe in**  
**You don't deserve a point of view**  
**If the only thing you see is you**

I've probably mentioned that once, twice, thrice, who knows how many times in my mental narrations over the last year, but it only gets truer by the day. I thought it was bad on the island, being the only girl and showing up every other day with new bruises, but my goodness, it's bad here. The worst part is the urge to stare back. Could that be Lara Collins? I swear to God she was chubby last year. And why do the sevvies seem so tall, so old, so pretty? They were itty bitty sixth graders last time I saw them. But now each person I pass is taller, prettier, skinnier, chubbier, every possible change that could have occured _has, _and yet I'm the one being stared at like I'm from another planet. A year ago half these people wouldn't have given me the time of day. Now, I see in their faces the same confusion and concern that was in my family's eyes when they first got a good look at me.

I hurry up the stairs, for once not worrying about how noisy my damn Sperry's are when I walk, keeping my head down and trying my best not to make eye contact with any of the onlookers. One floor, two floors down, just one to go. I dart around the corner past Mrs. Baker's sixth grade classroom and start prepare to sprint up the ridiculously steep third floor stairs when I smack into something- hard. The something curses and everything in it's arms goes tumbling down the steps.

A person. The something is a person, if you didn't figure out that much.

A very attractive person, I note as he turns around and I catch a glimpse of his angular face before he goes scrambling for his books. His is the first face I've seen today that is unfamiliar to me, strange for this school, but I recall the class list naming five boys other than the islanders who definitely didn't go here last year. I recover from the shock of running into a stranger in this tiny one-horse school.

**You don't have to believe me**  
**But the way I, way I see it**  
**Next time you point a finger**  
**I might have to bend it back**  
**Or break it, break it off**  
**Next time you point a finger**  
**I'll point you to the mirror**

"Oh, God, I"m sorry I wasn't paying any attention!" I exclaim, bending down to help me gather his books. He's got most of them, but I reach for his pencil case and hand it to him. He takes it from me and smiles.

"It's no problem," he says. "You kind of have to focus if you don't want to trip on these stairs. Especially with a monster cast like the one you've got." He points to the neon green cast going all the way up my leg, then is confused when he looks around for my crutches and doesn't find any.

"I don't use crutches," I say sheepishly. "They're annoying." He laughs and helps me stand, and now I get a good look at his face. The sight of his eyes makes me feel a coldness from my nose to my toes. Eyes that I've only ever seen in one face other than his own. This boy can only be one person.

"I'm Miles," he says, steadying me on my feet when I begin to sway. "Miles McAllister." He says something about having never seen me before, but it goes in one ear and out the other. Only two thoughts can penetrate my mind, the first being that this means _he _must be here too, and the second being that, as attractive as Miles is on his own, the poor guy really must live in his brother's shadow when it comes to girls. He notices my daze. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I say, shaking it off. "I'm fine, I just have to get to class. It was nice meeting you." I hurry up the stairs as quickly as I can with the heavy cast and then begin hobbling toward my new homeroom, room 326. As I'm limping along, I hear a shrill scream behind me, and for the first time in a while I'm happy to hear my name.

"Erin!" the voice screams, and the next thing I know 90 pounds of hyperness, rainbows, and fury hits me like a train, nearly knocking me off my feet.

**This is the last second chance**  
**(I'll point you to the mirror)**  
**I'm half as good as it gets**  
**(I'll point you to the mirror)**  
**I'm on both sides of the fence**  
**(I'll point you to the mirror)**  
**Without a hint of regret**  
**I'll hold you to it**

"Fiona," another voice follows the first as my other best friend makes her way towards me at a much more leisurely pace. "Please don't break her, we just got her back." Recovering from my shock, I hug my itty bitty buddy back, and snatch Julia by the collar and drag her into the hug as well.

"Julia, Fiona!" I squeal, genuinely excited for once. "I've missed you guys so much!"

"Us too!" Fiona says, tightening her grip. Julia snakes free and pulls Fiona off me.

"What'd I say about breaking her?" she reminds her, then turning to me and saying very solemnly. "Was it _Lord of the Flies?_" A strange question to most people, but believe me when I say that no one takes that book more seriously than my best friend and I do. We often spent our days trying to figure out who from our grade would be who if we crash landed on an island. There were never conclusive results.

"No," I say sadly. "The guys were all too hot." She gasps.

"Hotter than _Ralph?" _she asks, as if the very thought were a scientific impossibility. I think a moment.

"Maybe not hotter than Ralph." She seems relieved to hear this. In the same way no one took the characters of the hunters more seriously than I did before I met their practical incarnations firsthand, Julia practically worships the character of Ralph. I'll have to introduce her to mine. I'm snapped out of my thought process by a tug on my arm.

**I know you don't believe me**  
**But the way I, way I see it**  
**Next time you point a finger**  
**I might have to bend it back**  
**Or break it, break it off**  
**Next time you point a finger**  
**I'll point you to the mirror**

"Come on!" Fiona says, pulling me down the hall. "Mackenzie, Alexis and Stella are in Ms. O'Brien's class and Anna is in Mrs. Janek's, so you won't get to see them until recess if you don't see them now!" The bell rings as she's speaking and she freezes with a thoughtful look on her face. "Darn. Well, we have to go to class now so you can meet the new kids!" She then begins dragging Julia and me towards our classroom, both of us laughing behind her. At least, I'm laughing until I walk in and see Roger, Maurice, and Robert standing at the front by our teacher Mrs. Brennan's side. Well this year will certainly be fun.

**I know you won't believe me**  
**But the way I, way I see it**  
**Next time you point a finger**  
**I might have to bend it back**  
**Or break it, break it off**  
**Next time you point a finger**  
**I'll point you to the mirror**

Note the sarcasm.

**Yeah, not my best, but I wasn't feeling particularly inspired, so it's as good as it's gonna get for right now. Please review, and I promise I'll try to update again soon!**


	4. A Creative Title I'll Come Up With Later

**Whoa man, look who's updating quickly! Das right! Hammstahs mothatrucka! Not my best chapter, but hey, it's written. I hope you guys'll like it more than I do.**

I try to dart into a seat beside Julia before Mrs. Brennan can notice me, but Mrs. Brennan always had a tendency to be blind except for when I was trying to be sneaky, so before I've even so much as pulled out the chair she's called me to the front of the classroom.

"Instead of morning meeting, today I'd like for you and these nice boys to introduce yourselves to the class," she says in that sweet old lady way of hers. You know, the sweet old lady who is totally trying too hard to seem like a sweet old lady? Yeah, that's the way. I look over the classroom and find twenty one pairs of eyes staring straight back at me. My tongue begins clicking on the roof of my mouth and the vibrations soon follow into my jaw.

"B-But Mrs. B-Brennan," I stammer nervously, stumbling for words. "I've g-gone here since pre-school. Everyone knows m-m-me." One of the unfamiliar faces at the back of the room chuckles at my stutter, and when I blush Fiona personally pushes him out of his chair.

"But we have two newcomers to our class," she says, sounding amazed that one of her prized honor roll students couldn't figure this out on her own. "Christian and Jared, could you please stand?" The two boys stand and identify themselves, Christian a smiley Filipino boy who I noticed bothering Julia about something or the other just a moment before, and Jared being the boy who laughed at my speech. I make a note to never lend him a pencil or pen. That's right folks, we got ourselves a badass right here. "Good, now why don't you all introduce yourselves?" I look to Maurice, who looks to Robert, who looks to Roger, who smirks at me.

"Ladies first," he says, his voice dripping with his gentlemanly sarcasm. Mrs. Bergman doesn't catch his tone and beams at his manners. I sigh and speak up again.

"I'm Erin F-FitzGerald," I say softly. I try to go to my seat, but the she-witch stops me.

"Tell them something about yourself!" she urges me. I sigh. What could there be that they don't know? I've seen the broadcasts they showed when the media proclaimed us dead. I was the honor roll student who played tennis on the weekends and sang in the church choir. I was the one who wrote stories for their pre-school teacher as a kid and was the favorite babysitter of my neighbors and relatives. What else is there to tell?

"I'm Erin FitzGerald," I repeat, slightly louder this time. "And both my tibia and fibula are broken. The end." I try once again to sit down, but Mrs. Bergman tells me I'm not to sit until each of the boys has introduced himself as well. I sigh and lean back against the chalkboard, not caring if it turns the back of my navy blue school issued sweater white. I never cared for it anyway.

"My name is Maurice Briner, and I sing in St. Thomas' show choir in Brookfield," he says, grinning proudly as he always does. I catch the looks on my classmates' faces and I know what's in store for Maurice. If he plays his cards right, the dorky but sweet guy he is, he'll be in league with Will Paton, a seventh grade choirboy who's got more talent in his left pinkie than the whole school combined. He sang at Carnegie Hall over the summer, or so I'm told. Attention is turned to Robert now. He adjusts his empty frames before speaking.

"My name is Robert Keller, and I don't care what you say, I am most definitely not a hipster," he says proudly. I nearly snort. Not a hipster my ass, I saw the guy two weeks ago in a Twenty One Pilots tee shirt and even now he's wearing fake glasses. Roger smirks when everyone's eyes land on him, and he straightens his posture slightly.

"J'est ma pelle Roger McAllister et j'ai pris merdes qui sont plus attrayants que la plupart d'entre vous," he says in an impeccable French accent. Great, not only is he good looking, but he speaks French? My poor female classmates won't know what hit them. The guys in my class all seem horribly confused, but the girls all stare at him in awe as if it was the all mighty Taylor Lautner standing there in his shirtless glory instead of a fourteen year old with black eyes and an untucked middle school uniform. Meanwhile, Maurice stifles a laugh and Robert rolls his eyes. Luckily, Mrs. Brennan doesn't seem quite so amused.

"Try again, Mr. McAllister, and in English please." He only smirks more before proceeding.

"My name is Roger McAllister, and obviously I speak French," he says. Robert rolls his eyes and is about to say something sarcastic when Mrs. Brennan sends us to our seats, which, oh so luckily for me, are all next to each other in the very last row. Lovely. I take my seat, which is between Roger and a boy I've known since first grade, Andy Morgan. The girls sitting in front of us, Tessa Sully, Cara Culton, and Natalia Hansen, all turn around and immediately begin batting their eyes at Roger.

"Have you ever been to France?" Natalia asks cutely, causing me to gag.

"Lived there for a year," Roger replies. Robert finally gets his word in.

"Lived there my ass!" he leans in closer to the girls. "We all went there on a choir trip two years ago. Rog here, along with a few other guys, just learned French to pick up girls." Tessa barely stifles a giggle.

"I like your glasses," she says sweetly. Roger seems a little frustrated that he has left their affections so quickly, but Robert's milking the hipster thing for all it's worth.

"Can I try them on?" Cara asks, twirling her long red hair around her fingertips. Across the room, Julia is rambling about how 'it's like Sixteen and Pregnant, live and in person.' At the front of the classroom, Mrs. Brennan is fully absorbed by Fiona's enthralling tales of choir practice. As she is barely finished describing the first five minutes of said practice, the entire class knows they're in the clear to talk their little hearts away.

In the corner, Cole Harding, Grayson Dunne, and that new kid Christian are in a deep discussion about the best way to survive a Saw movie. A few rows behind Seamus MacIntyre and Gavin Donnegy are doing their own rendition of "Epic Rap Battles of History: Cleopatra vs. Marilyn Monroe" as Lissie Rogers and Dani Fells giggle to themselves about how 'totes hot' Gavin's new haircut is. Meanwhile, the only thing on my mind is how amazing how little has changed with my classmates in a year. That, and how incredibly right Lissie and Dani are about Gavin's hair.

"Hey Erin," Andy calls me back out of my bubble. I look up and smile. I very strongly dislike most of the airheads in my grade, but Andy is a genuine, bonafied sweetheart, albeit being a little naive most of the time.

"Hi Andy," I reply. He cocks his head to the side a little bit.

"What happened to your leg?" he asks. "And your arms?" The three boys on my other side freeze. Maurice's head snaps very inconspicously in our direction, away from the doodle of SpongeBob he was tracing into the desk. Robert's jaw sets and his fist clenches on his glasses, which he was just passing on to Cara when he stopped. Roger is hunched over slightly, looking deliberately at the Swiss Army knife he was using to carve 'Simon likes dick' into the desktop. From far away he might just seem focused, but looking closely, his fingers are shaking where they grip his knife and his other hand grips the edge of his desk so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. At first I think he's pissed, but there's something different about the way his jaw hangs. He's not angry; he's terrified.

_This could be my chance, _I think. If I tell anyone now, there's nothing Roger could do to hurt me. I'd be safe, from him, from Jack, from all of them. But for some reason, I hesitate.

_From that point on I trick him into believing I'm asleep, something I have a talent for. I toss a bit, and every time one of my forming bruises makes contact with him I groan softly. That's how I know he's not asleep; every time he loosens his hold on me, trying to make me comfortable. Then I let out a particularly pitiful moan and he pulls me closer, kissing the top of my head a few times and whispering repeatedly, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."_

Damn it, do I really have to remember that now?

"You know how I am," I say eventually, smiling softly. "I am such a clutz, I fell when I was climbing a tree and landed on my leg. The scratches are from the branches." All around me, my classmates and fellow castaways let out a sigh I doubt anyone realized they were holding. This is Saint Francis. This is the nice happy place rich people send their clean, pretty little kids to hide them away from the lesser beings. No room for tragedy here. Andy grins goofily.

"You shouldn't have been climbing trees Erin," he says. "You're too old for that." I smile a little more.

"I really am, aren't I?" Lucky for me, and for the boy next to me who accidentally tore a hole through his desk in shock, the bell rings for second period to start and we're all racing off to our 'Special,' which today, is art.

* * *

To my shock and amazement, I survive to recess with few mishaps. In Spanish I zoned out and when the teacher called on me, I accidentally mixed up some words in the sentence I was translating from English. So apparently, my cousin likes to _fuck _dogs. My teacher wasn't pleased. I blame my cousin Haley for teaching me how to swear in Spanish in the first place. But besides that, and being placed in a seat next to Roger not only in Religion, but in Art and Social Studies as well, my day is going surprisingly well.

As I'm walking out to recess, I'm hoping it'll only get better. Hopefully, the world will deem fit for my luck to last for once, and I will get to the playground and find out Anna hasn't signed away her recess to help in the library, Stella won't be in the middle of "The Mob" with the uber bitches, and Mackenzie and Alexis for once in their lives will not feel the need to "elbow and run," a felony which I was stupid enough to introduce them to.

"Erin!" I hear someone scream from behind me as I'm walking towards of the parking lot which we have marked as our own private territory. For a second time that day, I'm nearly tackled to the ground. Only this fury his 5'6" and the healthy weight for someone of that height is 130 pounds, not 90. And Mackenzie Manger has always been healthy as a horse. I cough as her arms fly around my neck and begin inadvertantly choking me.

"MC," I cough. "You're killing me." She releases me, then spins me around to look her in the eye.

"Duh, that was the point," she deadpans. I roll my eyes and hug her. It's then that her two best friends approach, a presence I am made aware of by a painful thump on the back.

"Thanks Alexis," I rasp, sounding winded. "I needed that." She shrugs.

"It's been nine months, I thought you might," she replies, nodding to affirm her point. "Everyone does sometimes, y'know?" I grab her and pull her into the hug.

"Giiiirl, don't hug her!" The whitest of my friends says in a sassy black girl voice. "She been surrounded by men for nine. Months. She could have all kinds of AIDs by now." I release my other friends and grin at her.

"Oh Stella," I say patronizingly. "Hun, you know I'm careful. Everything's done orally." It's then that I notice two people standing behind the three of them: a big blonde kid whose childish face does not belong on his tall, intimidatingly muscular body, and a comparatively scrawny black haired boy with green eyes. Some new kid and Simon. The new kid is smiling pervertedly and Simon coughs uncomfortably. I turn bright red, realizing they just heard me make a blow job joke. I stare at the two of them in embarrassed silence for a while.

"Um, Erin," Julia says from behind me, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "This is Leo Carter, he's in Mackenzie, Alexis, and Stella's class, and I don't know who this other kid is."

"Simon," I say. "That would be Simon." Simon turns red when I mention it. She nods, not noticing his embarrassment.

"All right. This is Leo Carter, and that apparently is Simon. Yay, we're all friends now." Leo giggles a little bit at Simon's expression, sounding strangely like a pedophile.

"Look guys! Simon wants the teeeee, Simon wants the teeeee," he sings. My friends groan.

"You're disgusting Sunshine," Alexis says, although she's grinning in spite of herself. Stella whacks her and scolds her for "being all pro-voc-a-tive with Hulesy's man." Simon looks just as confused as I feel.

"What's the T?" I ask. They all look uncomfortable, except Julia, who is physically incapable of discomfort.

"The Tits," she replies simply. "He's implying that Simon wants your tits." Simon looks like he might drop dead on the spot, the poor guy, but I just look Leo up and down analytically, then say aside to Julia, "I'm not going to like him, am I?" She shakes her head.

"Probably not." I nod.

"Good, I need someone to dislike both publically and privately," I say. "According to the press, me and the guys from the island are all besties, even the annoying ones." I make a face. "But anyway, onto serious business." I turn to Mackenzie and put my hands on both her shoulders. She jumps away.

"Rape!" she cries, cowering behind Alexis. Anna chooses this moment to appear.

"Actually Mackenze, you're taller than her. So it's okay," she says as if people randomly screaming rape is a regular occurence. Knowing my classmates, it very well might be. I look to Julia once again for translation.

"Grayson Dunne decided that if you touch someone's shoulder and you're taller than them, it's rape. But if you're shorter, it's totally okay." Grayson Dunne is the shortest boy in our grade, and possibly the weirdest, so this somehow does not surprise me.

"Got it. I shall refrain from touching Fiona's, Stella's, Alexis' and Anna's shoulders," I announce. "Now back to business. What's the DL about Mcyler?" I ask very seriously. Stella shakes her head.

"Homewreckers man," she says sadly. I gasp.

"No! Someone has stolen Tyra?!" Alexis nods.

"Natalia Hansen," she says. I shake my head.

"The slut. Shoulda guessed it. My money was on Nicolette. Everyone wants Nicolette. Even girls want Nicolette. It's a thing," I rant. Simon looks up at Leo.

"Should I be scared?" he asks. Leo nods.

"Extremely."

* * *

Lunch is only marked by one event. As I sit, drinking my skim milk (because 2% is for chumps) all casual like a normal person, Leo pulls up a seat in between me and Julia (who at this point is debating whether or not it would be possible for Jake March to cut Canada in half with a pair of scissors if the scissors were the size of Russia) and stares at me for a moment. Then, as I'm starting to gulp down a sip, he speaks.

"Swaaaaallow," he says, grinning that pedophile grin. I spit. On him.

"I'm really not gonna like you, am I?"

* * *

By some miracle, I survive the day. I sit next to Roger in five classes and Leo in Science, but I survive. Oh praise the Lord I survived. I'm just thinking I'm in the homestretch as I cross Ogden Avenue and start heading home, when I feel an arm take up residence over my shoulders. I look to my right and see Roger grinning down at me.

"Afternoon Shitbrains, mind if I walk you home?" he asks in a mockingly sweet voice. I shrug his arm off and pick up my pace.

"I would mind. Terribly so," I reply. He puts his arm right back.

"Walk me home then," he says. "I'm new in town, this is my first day. What if I get lost?" I raise an eyebrow.

"Our street is six blocks from here. That's not even half a mile," I say in disbelief. "Besides, can't your brother walk you home if you're that worried?"

"He's got basketball practice. He made A team and their last tournament is coming up," he replies. "C'mon Shitbrains, if you don't walk me home I might accidentally wander into the ghetto! I could be molested!"

"First off, this is La Grange. We have no ghetto," I deadpan. "Second, I don't recall you ever opposing sexual assault before." He feigns a wince, but keeps smirking at me. Man I'd love to wipe the smile off his face.

"You wound me," he says, holding a hand to his heart. His other hand, however, tightens painfully on my shoulder and he leans over to whisper in my ear, "Don't piss me off. I can easily make this current conversation look extremely sexual, and we all know the families you babysit for that live on this street wouldn't be pleased to see that. Also, one phone call from me, and all the buzz will be about our sexual involvement on the island." He leans away again. "So, walk home?" I feign a smile.

"I'd love to.," I lie. He keeps his arm around my shoulder and guides me across the street as we pass Ogden Avenue School and through the alley into the only somewhat ghetto part of La Grange. I give him a strange look. "Actually, I walk all the way down Waiola to Richmond. We keep going."

"Not today we don't," he replies, grinning. "You're all mine now girlie." I swallow hard.

"And what are you going to do with me?" I ask nervously. He smiles that devilish smile that shows off his overly sharp canines.

"This." He pulls me down to the ground just before we reach the parking lot across from Park Junior High and I find myself lying on the ground by a tree and behind some bushes, effectively out of sight of anyone on the street. Great. He's practically on top of me, hovering over me on his hands and knees, still smiling. He reaches down and tilts my neck up. "You've still got my letters," he says, gently brushing his finger over the R and the M just barely concealed below my jawline.

"They're not exactly washable," I whisper. He chuckles and leans down and kisses both of them, sending shivers up and down my neck. He notices this and grins more.

"Glad you still have a healthy fear," he murmurs, moving upwards and kissing my lips now. He stays there for a minute or so, but when he gets bored, he returns to an old habit of his, unzipping my winter jacket, unbuttoning the top of my blouse, and then chomping down on my shoulder. I wince and jump into him slightly, making him chuckle. Blood begins to show up in dots over where he's bitten me.

"You really shouldn't d-do that," I stutter, now from the cold instead of nervousness. "P-P-People will notice." He thinks about this for a moment, then smiles at me.

"Good thinking Shitbrains," he says, messing up my hair condescendingly. For the rest of the time that we spend lying in a heap on the snow, he refrains from biting me, other than on my lips and occasionally nipping at my jaw. At first I struggle, but just like on the island, it's hopeless. At least here I know I have nothing to fear from him. It's not like he can rape me in someone's backyard, especially not in this cold. Once I stop fighting him, he loses interest and before I know it he stands, gives me a light kick in the leg and starts walking. He looks back at me, still smiling like the Cheshire cat. "You coming?" Reluctantly, I stand and walk with him the rest of the way back to our houses. Once we get to our street, he walks me all the way to my front door and kisses me on both cheeks. "Jusqu'à la prochaine fois ma chère." I try not to gag as I pull my hands out of his and dart into my house, locking the door behind me. I see my brother standing at the window, looking like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

"Who was that?" he demands. I shrug.

"Neighbor," I reply before running upstairs.

"I _hate _neighbors," he mutters, and I can't help but laugh. Once I reach my room, I slam the door shut and begin fishing around my box-o-books until I pull out a blank journal that I swear to God must date back to circa 1943. After a whole day keeping it in, I have to tell someone- or something.

_"Dear fucking diary,_

_Okay Chuckles, you win. As you read this- and I think we both know that you will- I'll begin to make more sense to you. On a serious note, though, I have to warn you. This is no happy story. This isn't the brave tale of survival the media's been harking our nine months of isolation to be. This is a war between people who shouldn't have been allowed to own knives yet. These are boys who were hunting and breaking and killing before they could shave. This is the reason those kiddies cry in their sleep, and I can't stand to look at myself, why Ralph is so tormented and Samneric barely speak- not because of what they've seen but what they've done. This is humanity at its very worst, and I hope you have a strong stomach and a lot of time, because I'm taking you through every fucking moment. Now let's take it from the top._

_"Erin, it's time to wake up." I hear a voice..._

**Da end! Of this chapter anyway. Damn, nearly 4,000 words and I didn't even use a song. You guys who didn't think last chapter was very long satisfied? Cuz I'm sure as hell not! I seriously need to work on this, because until I get to the MAJOR PLOT TWIST OF DOOM I have nothing to do. Other than make my characters sing. And they're going to be doing a lot of that XD Aaaanywhooo, if you liked it, review. If you hated it? Fantastic, let me know! I'll send you pasta, like a boss. Wait, that's a pun most people won't get! Gah, I'm too clever for my own good. Anyway, you get my point, review or I'll sic Roger on you. Peace!**


	5. Sex Change Operations

**Wow. This update took forever. I actually wrote more than half of it about a month ago, then got distracted. In my defense, I DO have a concussion. I got it last Tuesday, running into a tree.**

**No. I'm not shitting you. I legit ran into a tree.**

**That aside, I do owe you, dear readers, and so enjoy this nice 3,135 word chapter.**

"We should audition for the school musical," Fiona says simply one day as she, Julia, and I sit in her basement, the latter two of us immersed in a game of Mario Kart (which I'm winning, by the way). I nod.

"Sure Fi," I reply. "Right after my sex change operation." Julia smirks.

"We'll bring you flowers afterwards," she replies with a serious tone similar to my own. Fiona just looks confused.

"What operation?" she asks, not picking up on my sarcasm. I laugh.

"Never mind Fiona," I dismiss it. "But the answer is no." It's at this moment that Julia passes me at the finish line and I curse loudly, then wince when Mr. White calls down the stairs that that's not the kind of language a girl should be using. Fiona pouts.

"Why not?" she asks. "I thought Sweeney Todd was your favorite?" I freeze for a moment. I _do _really like that musical... "Plus, I already signed us up, so you kind of have to go. Me asking was just a formality."

...Figures.

And so that is how, three days later, the three of us find ourselves holed up in Joyce Hall, listening to the sounds of at least thirty wannabe actors and actresses practice. At first I'm surprised by the number of boys that have come out to audition- in previous years many of the male parts had to be given to girls- but then I remember that more than half of a world class show choir attends this school now. In fact, we even end up sitting by Simon, who is preparing to audition for the role of Anthony by listening to Johanna Reprise and No Place Like London repeatedly on his iPod. I'm about to tap his shoulder and try to awkwardly strike up a conversation with him when someone pulls out a chair next to me.

"Is this seat taken?" I look up and see the boy I'd met on the stairway- Roger's brother, Miles. The seat has, in fact, been occupied by Julia, but she's currently in the audition room reading the lines of "Citizen #3." She really likes to shoot high.

"Yeah," I say. He turns red and I realize how bitchy I just sounded. "I mean, it is, but she's auditioning right now, so you can just sit." He then grins and sits down.

"Thanks," he replies. "My mom made me try out with my brother, but he's with all his choir pals and I don't really know anyone here. But you're my neighbor, aren't you?" I nod. "Yeah, I saw you walking home with Roger once. Are you guys friends?"

"I wouldn't say _friends,_" I say, trying to hide my bitterness. "I was on the island with him though, so I know him pretty well." Miles pales.

"Ah, jeez, I'm sorry," he says awkwardly. "I knew that too. That's why I figured you guys were friends, since you spent six months trapped together. But...that makes it sound like you didn't want to be there. Not that you did! But it makes it sound like my brother's a bad person to be trapped with- which, if my experience of spending twelve years as his roommate is anything to go off of, could be true if you don't like to clean. But there's not much to clean on an island. Oh, jeez, you probably don't wanna talk about this do you? Roger says I don't know when to shut my trap. Sorry." He's reddened and sounds slightly out of breath by the end of his rant. I laugh.

"You're okay," I say. "I don't talk much anyway. It's easier to have other people do all the talking." He grins once again, and I notice now that despite the teeth and the dark eyes, their smiles are different. Miles' reaches his whole face and his eyes light up as if each time he's genuinely happy. Roger's narrow and he looks at you like a meal every time he smirks. That's the other thing, Roger never just smiles. If the last two minutes are anything to go off of, I'm amazed that these two haven't killed each other. Suddenly, Miles reaches across the table and smacks it in front of Simon. The latter jumps and pulls out an ear bud.

"Hey Simon!" Miles says, waving. Simon seems surprised, but then smiles.

"Hi Miles," he replies. In seconds Miles has pulled us both into a conversation which he has complete dominance in. Simon and I contribute maybe a word or two between each of his sentences, and each one makes him smile or laugh or go off on a tangent. He sort of reminds me of Ralph, when we first met him. Before the stress of the island got to him.

"So, did you guys have like campfire songs and stuff while you were there?" he asks. This entire time he's shown an unusual amount of interest in our time on the island. Most people try to avoid the topic when we're around, but this kid- it's like it's all he can think of to talk about. "I asked Roger, but he just laughed and said 'Yeah, we were like High School fucking Musical.' Was he rude to you guys like that on the island? Cuz he does that sometimes. We're working on it with him, but I think he just gets worse to bother me sometimes."

"Oh yeah," Simon says, laughing and skillfully skirting the topic of Roger's 'rudeness.' "We had choreographed dance numbers, Erin had a soulful and corny love song about every occasion, and in the end we were all bestest friends." There's just a hint of cynicism in his tone in the end, but Miles doesn't catch it.

"Can you picture it?" he laughs. "My brother prancing around like Peter Pan and the lost boys singing "We're All In This Together!" Man, I'd pay good money to see that!"

"See what?" someone says. I can just hear the smirk in his tone and I know he's not all that bothered, but something flashes in Miles' eyes. He jumps to his feet.

"Hey Rog!" he says. He sounds casual, but there's a strain in his voice. As the smirk widens on Roger's face, I know he caught it too. "Wanna sit with us? These guys are actually answering my questions!"

"And I'm sure they are completely sick of you by now," Roger replies boredly. "Do you want me to practice Pretty Women with you before you audition or not?" Miles looks confused.

"I thought you said you didn't give two-"

"-shakes of a rat's ass. Yes, I did say that, but I changed my mind. Let's go," Roger says, and then he drags his brother away. Little does he know that said brother is mouthing 'Call me' behind his back. I laugh, but as soon as they're out of sight I turn to Simon.

"What the _hell _was that?" I ask, shocked. Simon just shrugs, like he's used to it.

"You did yourself in when you said you were quiet," Simon says. "It's a trick of his. The more he rambles, the more quiet kids like us talk just to shut him up. He's not as stupid as he always seems the first time you meet him. Part of the naïve act he pulls is just to get on Roger's nerves."

"I figured that much out, people have tried that trick with me before," I reply. "But when Roger came up- that was just _weird."_

"Welcome to the world of the McAllister twins," he says sarcastically. "Miles seems to like his brother well enough, but Roger always seems like he wants to rip his head off. They're like the good and evil twins. Miles is sugar, spice, everything nice, Roger is Satan unleashed."

"Sounds like you and Jack," I say teasingly.

"Please don't remind me I'm related to that thing," he says.

"Sugar, spice, everything nice though? Sounds like you don't think too highly of Miles either," I say. He shrugs.

"He's better than Roger," he replies. "But while most girls like Roger for being the bad boy type of guy, Miles likes to play the naïve sweetheart thing up to get all the rest. In the end they're both douches. Nobody gets that close to a McAllister, and I'm pretty sure they like it that way."

"Why do you say that?" This is the most Simon's spoken to me since I dumped him, and besides that this is interesting stuff. I'm gonna get as much out of him as I can.

"I don't have any way to prove this, especially since not enough people know about Roger to find any other opinions about it," he begins, "but I'm pretty sure his whole family knows the truth about him and has been covering for him. That's why Miles acts like such a nice guy, I think, so that he can make up for Roger's lack of normality."

"Why do you think they know?" I ask, leaning forward.

"Well, when we were seven, Miles got sent to the-" he's cut off by one of the directors calling his name. "I gotta go, sorry." I grab his hand, and I immediately see the back of his neck turn red.

"Wait, will you finish what you were telling me when you get back?" I ask hopefully. He hesitates, then shakes his head.

"I really shouldn't," he says. "I'm sorry." And then he takes off for the audition room, still red. Once he's gone, I look around at my friends, who, due to the iPods plugged into their ears, are blissfully unaware of everything that just happened.

"Damn," I mutter before returning to my homework.

* * *

"What do you think that was about?" I ask Ralph that weekend after explaining to him the conversation first with Miles, then Simon. We're in a dressing room of some Chicago news channel sitting in the position that became all to familiar during the island- him just sitting there while I lie with my head in his lap. What can I say? He makes a good pillow. Ralph shrugs.

"Could be anything," he replies. "I remember when I was in second grade and they were in first, Mr. McAllister got arrested for something. Don't remember what. I know they never charged him though."

"Maybe it's something to do with that then," I say absently. "Simon said it had something to do with Roger though." Ralph smiles.

"Like I said, it was just a thought. I don't know if that's what he was talking about any more than you do." There's a knock on the door and one of the station's interns comes in, then blushes when she sees us. Crap.

"We just went onto commercial, you'll be on in five," she says before quickly closing the door again.

"I swear, one of these days the wrong person is gonna get the wrong idea," I mutter, and Ralph laughs.

"Dear god, a freshman with an eighth grader? My social life will be destroyed," he says over-dramatically, throwing a hand over his heart.

"And mine would just boom with the boys," I say. "Because I haven't already spent _enough _time with a bunch of teenage guys." With that, we both stand and head out into the hallway that heads backstage. When we're out there, the scene is familiar. Jack and Roger look like they're up to absolutely no good, interns are openly wondering why it's only ever five of us that make it on these broadcasts, and Simon's botched something up. This time, it's his tie, which simply will not go into the proper shape for a tie. I laugh.

"Let me get that," I say, walking up to him and smacking his hands away. As usual, he reddens ever so slightly.

"You don't have to do that," he murmurs embarrassedly. I just smile.

"In third grade, I insisted on wearing one of my brother's old ties every day without fail. Unless you want to look like your mommy normally dresses you, I'm gonna help you with this." He sighs and allows me to knot it for him. It's done in seconds, and he sighs again.

"This thing hates me, I swear," he says, sounding completely serious. I laugh.

"C'mon, we're going to be on in a few minutes." I pull him by the hand over to where Ralph, Jack and Roger are waiting for our cue to start.

And so begins the show. The performance, if you will. After being greeted by the host and graciously thanking her for having us on her show, we take our self-assigned seats, Jack and Simon sitting as bookends, and Ralph and Roger on either side of me. As expected, she inquires about our health, mine in particular, and we all make a big deal about how I've finally transitioned from that hideous old cast into a boot, and how I hope that I'll be out of it in time for track season. Blah. As we discuss this, I make sure to sit on my hands to hide my little secret- the cuts from my last break down. As the minutes pass, we learn that Ralph and Jack now have part time jobs, and yes, the show choir is taking a break to allow the boys time to readjust, and other such small talk that I'm sure the viewers don't really care about. We discuss recent gossip about us, and while I firmly deny any and all rumors about possible island relationships, Roger jokes suggestively to egg said rumors about him and me on. Of course. Then we get to the juice.

"So, boys, Erin," she addresses us, leaning forward in a telltale sign that she's going to drop a 'bombshell' or whatever you'd call it. "Three and a half months have passed since you were rescued, and on request from your parents and yourselves, we held off on talking to much about your time on the island. But now that time has passed, just how comfortable are you with talking about your experiences?" Ralph, Simon and I share a look, but Jack plows forward.

"There's not much to tell," he says simply, folding his hands in his lap. There's a smile on his face, but I can see an edge in his eyes; he's afraid she'll ask the wrong question.

"Oh come on," the host asks laughingly. "All that time together, I'm sure it wasn't easy! After all, the oldest of you was fifteen at the time?"

"Fourteen," Ralph corrects. "I turned fifteen in the last month, and Jack's birthday was after." Simon barely stifles a laugh at the look on the woman's face.

"Right," she says, forcing a smile. Well _someone _must not like being wrong. "Fourteen. Thank you Ralph." Realizing she probably won't be getting much out of the boys, she tries me instead. The reporters and TV show hosts always do this. I don't speak much during interviews unless I have to, so they assume I'm sort of a weaker link. "Erin, it must have been especially difficult for you." I quirk an eyebrow, widening the soft smile I've strained to keep on.

"Why do you say that?" I ask innocently.

"Well, first off, being the only girl," she says. "That must have been a bit of a shock." I shrug.

"I guess," I reply. "Although, after a while, I decided it might be easier that way. Girls tend to create drama." Her smile widens and Ralph laughs. He knows the kind of choice words I'd prefer to be saying about girls and drama. "But for a while it was hard. I'm shy to begin with, and besides that, I was the only one of our age who hadn't gone to their school. The younger kids hadn't either, but I couldn't exactly be friends with them. Soon, though, I made friends with Simon, and after that Ralph. The two of them have become like brothers to me." Cue a brief _awww _from the studio audience. The host, however, seems amused.

"But not Jack and Roger?" Damn, she caught my slip up.

"I think I speak for Jack as well," Roger says, smiling down at me, "when I say that I didn't get to know Erin quite as well as I would've liked to." I do my best to hide the chill that runs down my spine, thinking about the real meaning of his words. As Roger probably got to know all aspects of my personality better than anyone, I think it's safe to say he's not really talking about forging friendships. The host seems slightly put out by the lack of drama.

"Really you five," she says, laughing again. "You can't expect me to believe that you all worked together all the time, and at night sat around singing campfire songs!"

"Actually, that's exactly what we did," Simon says, smiling at me and probably thinking about our conversation with Miles. She laughs.

"Oh really! Ralph and Erin as well?"

"Yes indeed," Roger says, smirking at me again. "Erin's a lovely singer." I notice Jack tense a little, possibly remembering my little performance that lost him two prisoners. "In fact," he continues, smoothly changing the subject. "Simon, Erin and I all tried out for our school musical. The results were supposed to be posted at five, right?" He looks to Simon and me for confirmation, and we both nod. Once again, the host is annoyed at her guests, but she rolls with it.

"We're about to cut to commercial," she says. "But how about after the break we reveal how these guys did?" The audience cheers.

"I'd like nothing better," Roger agrees.

And so the commercial break comes, and it goes, and afterwards, we learn something quite interesting about the play. Namely, that Simon will be a hopeless romantic, while I take to the stage in the role of my nightmares and Roger takes the one of his dreams.

One that allows him to play with _a lot_ of plastic knives.

**Yeah, so I guess it's not the most interesting chapter, but the next few chapters are probably all going to take place at the Sweeney Todd play practices, so I had to introduce this all. So, speaking of which, anyone want to guess who got which roles? Roger's is pretty obvious, but whatever.**

**Now, I also owe you guys a bit of an explanation. You see, the reason updates have been so few and far between is, well, my plot sucks.**

**A lot.**

**When I first thought it up, I was going to write this more for the entertainment of me and my friends, and maybe never even post it. But then that epilogue left a lot of unanswered questions and I knew I couldn't leave you guys hanging like that. So I'm kind of making this up as I go along. The original plot I thought of made no sense, the second one made a little more, but still not a whole lot. We're onto plot 3 now. I hope this one sticks around.**

**Oh, and I almost forgot, as of two days ago (July 3) Teenagers has been posted for two years! Sniffles, they grow up so fast.**

**Now that that's over with, review like crazy people!**


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